“Everett Morgan.”
Tara Greene materializes at my elbow with the precision of someone who’s used to cameras catching her best angles. She smells expensive enough to make the lodges’s coffee feel cheap. Her eyes lock onto mine with smooth, quiet confidence.
“I was hoping to steal a few minutes,” she says. “Just a quick interview. Vision, legacy, all that fun stuff.”
My spine straightens automatically—muscle memory from years behind a bar. “Of course. What do you need?”
Her smile brightens, all gratitude and curated warmth. “Wonderful. We’ve set up in the library.”
I follow her through the lodge, weaving around cables and light stands. She walks like she owns the place. I walk like I’m trying not to swear at the potholes forming in my stomach.
The library is barely recognizable. Her crew transformed it into a cozy fireside confessional—armchairs angled for intimacy, a ring light blasting warm gold across the room, a camera positioned dead-center at eye level.
I can practically see the title card beneath my face already:Everett Morgan, Fifth Generation Legacy in Crisis.
I settle into the chair, lean back, and cross my ankle over my knee. The picture of calm, even if a Nor'easter of dread is tearing up my spine.
Tara crosses her legs, tablet in hand, body angled toward mine.
For a second, it feels like being back behind the bar—someone leaning in, expecting charm.
“Let's start simple,” she says. “Fifth generation Morgan. That's a heavy legacy.”
“Good heavy,” I say, letting a small smile lift my mouth. My hands rest loose on my knees. Relaxed. Open. “This place raised me. I'm lucky.”
“And yet.” She tilts her head. “You left for nine years.”
My smile doesn't falter, but I shift my weight slightly. Micro-adjustment. Centering myself.
“Sometimes stepping away gives you perspective.”
“What made you leave?”
A girl who broke my heart. A secret that was suffocating me. The unbearable weight of wanting something I wasn't allowed to have.
“Career opportunities,” I say. “I wanted to learn the business side of hospitality. See how other properties operated. Bring that knowledge back here eventually.”
“Eventually.” She echoes the word like she's tasting it. “Nine years is a long eventually. Most people who leave small towns don't come back.”
“I'm not most people.”
“No.” Her eyes sharpen. “You're not. You're the heir to a hundred-year legacy who ran away at—what, twenty? Twenty-one?—and didn't look back until your grandmother died.” She pauses. “What were you running from, Everett?”
The question lands like a blade between my ribs.
“I wasn't running from anything. I was running toward something.”
“And what did you find?”
Nothing. Emptiness. A string of cities and women and jobs that never felt like home because home was wherever she was and she wasn't anywhere near me.
“Experience,” I say. “Perspective. The certainty that this is where I belong.”
“Hmm.” She taps her pen against her knee. “Let's talk about the people who belong here with you. Sierra Barrett, for instance.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Fuck.
